


Abandoned Affections

by Dancains



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, bonus epilogue, mentions of past relationships - Freeform, short fic, this title might sound angsty but it's really not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Poirot reveals something unexpected during a late night tête-à-tête, Hastings isn't quite sure how to feel about it.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hmm? Must not have heard you right, old dear,” said a somewhat sleepy Captain Hastings, as his attention returned to the man beside him, “For a moment there I had thought you said _Japp_ ,” Hastings laughed, “…as in our friend the good Chief Inspector.”

“Oh? _Oui_ , Poirot was speaking of the Chief Inspector Japp.” Answered Poirot nonchalantly.

Hastings sat up suddenly and turned to him, almost spluttering. If he had been smoking one of Poirot’s thin Russian cigarettes, as the Belgian was now, he assuredly would have dropped it on the bedsheets and set the room aflame.

…

The evening had started off quite pleasantly, tickets to the opera, courtesy of one of their thankful, wealthy clients who owned the establishment, followed by a decadent dinner, this followed by possibly a few too many glasses of wine. As they had returned to Poirot’s flat at Whitehaven Mansions, one thing had led to another, the way things naturally did when the couple had time alone together and the mood was right. They now found themselves lounging in the comfortable king-sized bed of the master bedroom, the sheets slightly askew and both parties feeling mutually satisfied.

On nights like these they often talked late into the night, simply enjoying the easy conversation as well as each other’s company. This particular night the conversation had somehow been steered towards some of the previous infatuations they had felt for people before they had come to realize their feelings for one another. It was a harmless thing to talk about in retrospect, many of these memories felt as if they were from a past life, so distant from the lives they were living.

Hastings had recalled a young lieutenant he had known in the service, that only some years later he had realized he had been entirely enamored with. Even later, from a mutual acquaintance at his club, he had learned that he had been killed at the Somme.

There were quite a few others as well, a lad or two at Eton, and plenty of women--naturally, many Poirot had met himself in the course of their work. But of course, nothing serious had come of any of these. Certainly nothing like the connection he had made with the Belgian detective now sitting beside him.

Poirot, he had already discovered, had realized quite earlier on in his life his capacity for being attracted to men, though most of his affections in his early life in Belgium had been one-sided affairs, or hadn’t come to fruition for one reason or another--though these crushes were few and far between to begin with. It was at this time in the course of the evening that he had mentioned the young Englishman, only a police sergeant at the time, whom he had met during the infamous Abercrombie forgery case, and in his one words, was “embarrassingly smitten with for a time”.

…

Poirot took a long drag from his cigarette, as Hastings tried to recover himself.

“Really? You can’t be serious, old boy!”

“You find it so difficult, mon cher, to imagine that a young Poirot might have taken some fancy, to a tall, athletic looking, young policemen? A very hardworking, and honest one, I might add, though not a rival to Poirot’s intellect by far.” Hastings wanted to roll his eyes at this moment of vanity, but kept his curious gaze steadily on Poirot.

“So do you mean—that is to say—” Hastings stuttered indignantly, “did you ever…?”

Poirot gave him a withering glance, as if the mere idea was ridiculous.

“Hastings, I have often proved to be very good judge of character, as well as a judge of other personal traits of many a person. I sincerely doubt that the good Chief Inspector has any interest in _les hommes_ beyond occasionally befriending them, and more often, arresting them—that is, if they are of the criminal variety…”

The corner of his mouth turned in a slight smile, “Did you know, Hastings, that within the first hour I had been acquainted with him, he showed to Poirot, quite proudly, a beautiful photograph of his then fiancée, now wife, which he carried with him everywhere he went, in the breast pocket, _sur son coeur_ , in fact!”

His companion seemed almost as taken aback at this revelation as the earlier one. “Are you trying to tell me that Japp is some…old romantic? A great softie, really?”

“I must admit that he was a little less—how do you say...rough at the edges, less hardened, perhaps, by the many violent crimes he most assuredly encountered in the years that came to follow in his work with Scotland Yard. Though I suspect he still is, at heart, ‘a softie’ as you put it.”

Thinking of the few times Japp had dourly mentioned “the missus” or “my Emily”, Hastings still felt this hard to wrap his head around, though if he and Poirot had their well kept secrets, it was just as possible that there was more than a touch of softness under the guise of the sometimes surly policeman.

Poirot could tell that Hastings wanted to ask him something, but was stopping himself.

“As for Poirot, I greatly value the friendship of the Chief Inspector and the working relations we have developed over these years, for there are not many men of his status in the police who would, quite intelligently I might say, engage the highly skilled private detective on those cases where it has made itself quite a necessity. I am glad for this friendship and this is all now, any… _schoolboy crushes_ …as you might possibly call them, have quite left my mind. Especially in light of…certain developments in the relationship between myself and a particular dear friend.” One of his finely manicured hands drifted, almost casually, to lay on Hastings’ thigh.

Hastings willed himself not be distracted by his companion’s delicate touch, and the now smoldering gaze he was met with from the Belgian’s mischievous hazel-green eyes.

“I just have one more question.”

“ _Oui_?” Poirot seemed much more preoccupied with fussing with the bedsheets that rested over them, though still humoring him.

“Is it the mustache?”

This time Poirot genuinely had a look of surprise, which melted into a hearty Gallic chuckle.

“ _Non, non_ …in fact the Chief Inspector Japp, he did not wear the mustache when Poirot first met him.”

“Really? It’s almost difficult to picture.”

“ _C’est vrai!_ It was actually at the suggestion of Poirot that he grew the mustache!” He paused to put out his cigarette in the small metal box sitting on his bedside table. “Clearly it adds an air of maturity, a certain sophistication…possibly an asset for a youthful policeman who wants to appear older and more experienced that his meager years would suggest. “

“My word.”

“It is quite possibly the best piece of advice that the Chief Inspector has taken in the entirety his life.” Poirot added, in the most matter-of-fact fashion.

“You know, I really can’t believe you sometimes, Poirot. _Incredible_.”

He cared for Poirot deeply, but there was only so much narcissism a person could stand for one evening, he thought to himself. He turned to his side, determined to go to sleep.

For a moment it was silent—only the still quiet of the darkened room with the faint sounds of the city humming in the distance. Hastings felt a solid weight finally settle beside him.

In a near-whisper, he heard Poirot speak, “…Arthur, _mon cher_ … _mon brave_. I do hope you are not feeling, perhaps, just slightly the jealousy?”

“That’s ridiculous.” Hastings murmured back, though truthfully there was a sort of hazy ill will towards a certain Chief Inspector, burgeoning in the back of his brain where there had only been ambivalent feelings until shortly before.

“That is correct. It would be _très ridicule_.” He felt a familiar arm wrap comfortingly around his side, as warm lips placed a string of kisses at the back of his neck. The same mouth soon found its way to the shell of his ear, gently nibbling there. Hastings held back a contented moan.

“Perhaps Poirot needs to show you just how ridiculous that idea would be, _n’est-ce pas_?”

Hastings answered him without a word, all thoughts of tall mustachioed policemen gone from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a silly headcanon for a long time now that Poirot had a bit of an unrequited thing for Japp at some point (while Japp is super straight and super oblivious) and thought I'd tried to work it into a little Poirot/Hastings fic. Also any correction on the French bits (or constructive crit in general) are welcome if anything looks wrong, I sort of did this on the fly/from memory without any google translator...


	2. Bonus Epilogue

The next morning they both enjoyed a late, leisurely breakfast in the sitting room. Hastings managed to scrounge up some toast, a hard-boiled egg, sausages, and a cup of tea. Poirot had his usual _chocolat_ and was going through the mail that had arrived.

“Hastings, I just now have remembered something that is somewhat…apropos of the matter of which we were speaking last night.” Poirot said before discarding the letter in his hand into one of his neat little piles.

Hastings looked up from his breakfast, “What’s that, old boy? No need to make a fuss about that now. I’m afraid I rather…overreacted.”

“Now that I think about it, you may not want to hear it.”

“Well you’ve got me interested now.”

“…”

“Out with it then.”

“Hastings, you will admit that at times dreams can be quite strange, and uncontrollable on the part of the dreamer?”

“I’m not quite sure where this is going.”

“I must admit that on one occasion, I had a dream in which you, myself, and Chief Inspector Japp…” he paused,” Hastings, are you familiar with the term _ménage-a-trois_?”

Hastings spit out his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I'm pretty sure Agatha Christie is rolling over in her grave right now...


End file.
